


The Mourning Star

by Darke_Eco_Freak



Category: Devilman Crybaby - Fandom
Genre: M/M, introspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2019-03-04 16:01:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13368189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darke_Eco_Freak/pseuds/Darke_Eco_Freak
Summary: This time is no different from all the others but it's completely different at the same time. He has Akira this time, or no, he doesn't have Akira.





	The Mourning Star

Was this a forgone conclusion? The ending planned from the start and seen to completion? Should he have seen this all coming the second he opened his eyes, stretched his wings, hardened his heart?

Was Akira destined to die the day Ryo…Satan met him? Perhaps, if this was all part of His damnation then yes. He wanted Satan to suffer after all, cast him from the Heavenly Host, and forced him to wander the vastness of space. He had sent Satan off into Creation, banished and tarnished despite being the brightest and best loved of all the angels.

He had made an example of him all those existences ago and He would do it all over and over and over and over…

Satan would have no peace, he would have no respite. He would be forced to exist for all time in agony, in suffering and that was _his_ one truth. So yes, he should have known that he could never have Akira but he hadn’t because he had been foolish and short sighted.

Humans were God’s creation, they were His children the way Angels could not be and Satan had hated them all. As he drifted through non-existence, in an agony of comatose sentience, he had hated these pathetic humans. They had been given free will, they had been given tools to survive and they were weak enough that the rule of only the strong will survive couldn’t apply to them.

They were weak and disgusting and had the love of a Creator Tyrant. A Creator Tyrant who would come to avenge their deaths, send his warriors and his soldiers more likely, but not save them. If they were foolish enough to let themselves be destroyed then He would not intervene, it was _their_ choice after all. However, He would avenge them, He would mourn them and He would remake them again.

So what was the point of Akira? If humans were His creation and Satan hated them, what was the point of Akira? What was the use in loving something that so perfectly embodied all he hated and despised and almost envied? Was there a point in it?

No, perhaps there was no point, perhaps it was only part of the forgone conclusion. In the end, he would lose, he would always lose. He would suffer and he would be reborn and he would fail, fail, fail, fail and suffer, suffer, suffer.

Then Akira was part of that. God had known because He knew all and He had created something Satan could love. Ha, what a ridiculous idea, the Creator Tyrant taking time to craft something His errant child could love? Ridiculous and all too easy to believe, what wouldn’t He do to make His child suffer?

All that remained on this planet was them, well him. Laying on a burnt rock with what used to be the only thing he could and had loved. Akira.

Akira who was dead. Akira who he’d killed. Akira who had trusted him. Akira who he would have done anything to keep. Akira who he had lost through his own hubris.

And wasn’t that how he’d lost everything? Hubris? Arrogance. Enough to think he could best God alone. Enough to think he could have Akira without having to break that all too human heart. Enough to think he could have had this, everything, anything.

So here he is, waiting for the forgone conclusion to arrive. With salt dripping from his lashes, with pain breaking his stone heart to dust. On this burnt out rock, in the middle of a bloody red sea. Alone and forsaken, by his one love, by the demons he’d adopted as his own.

The Host would come, they would find him once they were ready, once He was ready and they would burn this whole planet. They would scorch the rock and salt it as they left so that nothing would or could grow here again, not until He willed it. Then, it would start again, afresh and anew, it would all start and follow the same damned pattern.

Would that mean having Akira again? Would that mean losing him again? Satan didn’t know, he didn’t want to know. All he wanted, all he’d ever wanted, was to have his human by his side while he ruled this earth. And now all he had was his own wretched self and his inevitable destruction, again.

All he had were these wings that had fought against Akira. All he had were these limbs that had hurt him. All he had was this body that had destroyed his beloved. He had these tears, spilling from his eyes, tears he had never let himself cry before. Tears he had never needed to cry before because he’d had Akira, the crybaby, the human with a heart big enough to cry for the whole world.

Now his heart was silent and still and Satan would give anything to hear it again, he would give everything for it. If he had to go begging at the throne of God, he would drag himself there on bended knees. He would rip out these golden wings, tear them from his body and let their golden ichor water the decimated earth.

If God wanted a sacrifice then Satan would pluck every feather from his wings, he would tear the skin from his body and offer it all. He would slit his own throat and choke on the immortal ichor of his veins. He would burn in the heart of a star, let himself be ripped apart by a hypernova, live in the space between stars and planets and black holes and _existence_ if he could have Akira.

He would rejoin the Host as a lowly messenger if he had to, he would burn in Hell if he must. So long, so long as Akira was there, with him. So long as he had Akira.

But no…n-no.

The Host is here, the Host watching as he screams, as he begs and cries and shrieks. The Host and Its Master somewhere, watching the Morning Star fall, again. The Host watching him with disgust and hatred and pleasure as the Mourning Star burns out, as he’s torn apart, as he’s ripped to shreds, destroyed.

They know they’ll be here again. They know he will fail again. And they enjoy it, don’t they? They must, otherwise none of Them would care. None of Them would come.

He would let Satan live, but He never does.


End file.
